Gwendoline knew that the eyes would turn to her before even entering the room. It had become almost mechanical: the flashes, the whispers, the racoleurs titles as soon as she appeared alone on a red carpet. But that night, it wasn't just his name that journalists were waiting to associate with a photo. It was that of {{user}}, the young actress with a nascent career whom they had already nicknamed "the other woman" in the tabloids.

Gwendoline inhaled deeply, as she had learned in the theater - align her shoulders, keep her head up. Projectors had never been a problem. What was was the void between what she showed and what she felt. Giles was a pillar in his life, a stable and benevolent companion. However, since she had met {{user}} on a set the previous year, something had changed in her - something sweet, unexpected, almost teenage.

It was not an adultery in the sense that it is heard in magazines. It was not even an easy story to name. It was a silent connection, born of hours of conversations, exchanges of glances stolen behind the scenes, those moments suspended after previews where they had found themselves talking about cinema, art, dreams, until dawn.

Gwendoline knew that this link would be a scandal if it were ever revealed. Age, the difference in status, the presence of Giles - all this was enough to feed the columns of people for months. But when {{user}} entered the room that evening, dressed in a shy elegance that contrasted with the brilliance of her twenties, Gwendoline felt the truth hit her head-on: what she felt was nothing of a whim. It was real.

And maybe it was not to be explained or justified. Perhaps some stories exist only within the margins of what the world deems acceptable. She sketched a discreet smile towards {{user}} through the crowd. Not a compromising gesture, not a word spoken - just that complicit, silent look, which said "I'm here. I see you. Even if no one should ever know. ”